


Dress

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris discovered Justin and anime at roughly the same moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress

Chris discovered anime and Justin at roughly the same time. The  
latter in Florida and the former later, in Germany, weirdly dubbed.    
He thinks it might have been Astroboy.  Everything they watched on  
TV in Germany was surreal, like Mexican soap operas that survive in  
America on their sheer confusion factor.

In their hotel rooms, Justin likes to wear just his boxers, or a  
towel around his hips, and Chris remembers him like that, some  
evening, watching hours of German commericals on TV and channel  
flipping whenever an actual program came on.  The dream Chris had  
that night had no respect for the concept of 'underage.'  Later,  
when they were in Japan, Chris was thoroughly introduced to the  
concept of kawaii, which his brain latched onto like a limpet.  Very  
small, very pretty, very young, very sexy.  The goddamn sailor suits  
he was suddenly seeing on grown women rather than Catholic  
schoolgirls didn't help. Everything he knew came back to him in  
Japan, but through the looking-glass.  

The female record exec they dealt with in Tokyo treated Justin like  
a kitten, and he loved it. Every time she stroked his hair, he  
purred.  Little whore.  He'd always flirted, but for all that the  
Japanese were supposedly reserved and shit, they were actually  
really touchy, and Chris wondered whether it wasn't getting out of  
hand.  Once or twice, they took the subway from the downtown back to  
their semi-suburban hotel instead of braving the traffic above-  
ground, and the last time they did it all hell nearly broke loose.    
They were almost famous by then, but little girls weren't the  
problem.  The little girls just sat on one side of the car and  
watched them with big, curious eyes.

The problem was suits.  These absolutely anonymous businessmen, each  
with his own raincoat and briefcase, mostly absolutely impassive  
when you tried to look at them.  Right up until the moment that  
Justin arched forward and shrieked, pulling one guy with him.  The  
suit looked startled, but not really mad.  His hand was hooked into  
the waist of Justin's jeans.

Chris and Joey just stared for the necessary few seconds for the  
suit to disappear back into the depths of the subway car, then Chris  
snarled at Justin not to just stand there with his ass hanging out.

That evening, in with the stuffed animals and flowers that  
inevitably showed up at their hotel, there was a department store  
garment box sealed with a lot of clear tape and a gold ribbon.  It  
was addressed to Justin in a hand that didn't look like it normally  
wrote in English.  The card was written out in Japanese, which none  
of them could read.

Underneath a couple of layers of tissue paper, one of which was  
actually black, was a sailor dress.  The kind they'd seen women  
wearing in the street, with a too-short skirt and a short-sleeved  
blouse.  There were white knee-socks and black leather shoes.    
Patent.  Very, very shiny.

There was no particular reason to assume the outfit wasn't an  
innocent gift, something from a woman who wanted Justin to picture  
her in it.  But not a little girl, Chris thought, holding the skirt  
out.  The waist was sized too big for anyone as lithe as the girls  
he'd seen watching them on the train.  Chubby fangirl, then.  Or.    
It wasn't likely, in the broad scheme of things, that a random  
stranger copping a feel in a subway would go through the trouble of  
tracking Justin down and presenting him with a disturbingly fetishy  
dress.  Even one that looked like it might have been tailored for  
him.

When he saw it, Joey said, "Dude, I love it.  Sailor Moon."

Nobody actually had to explain, even to Lance, that the dress  
shouldn't be mentioned to Lynn, but it didn't get thrown out with  
the worst of the fan stuff, either.  Lance and JC adopted a fair few  
of the stuffed animals, Joey claimed the couple of video tapes  
that'd turned out to be interesting and probably were even legal to  
bring back to the States.  The flowers died and were chucked.  Love  
letters to individual band members went into either the trash or  
shoe boxes. Chris adopted one stuffed dog that looked like it might  
have been somebody's kid-toy before she gave it to him.  He was  
towing it around by one leg, half-waiting for someone to ask him  
about it so he could start a fight, when he walked into Lance and  
Justin's room and saw Justin lay the dress in between layers of his  
clothes in his suitcase.

*

It's not until months later, in Salt Lake City of all places, that  
he sees it again.  They're sprawled on the floor of the suite's  
common room at one in the morning, getting Justin drunk.  The rest  
of them are wasted, but there's something very special about  
watching Justin get drunk off his underage ass in the most  
puritanical city in America.  The tequila's progressed to body  
shots, and JC's more or less flat on his back with his shirt off,  
wriggling happily whenever someone licks him.

Justin licks JC's chest, drinks, and sucks on his lime.  There are  
chewed-out bits of citrus all over the room.  And then Justin looks  
back at Chris over his shoulder, just like Justin's totally aware  
that he's crouched with his legs spread and his ass in the air.

Look out, gentlemen, the band's very own virgin/whore is officially  
wasted.

Justin says, "I've got to show you this thing.  It's hilarious."

Lance looks up.  He stopped being able to focus his eyes half an  
hour ago, and he's only upright now because Joey's holding him  
there.  "Is this that thing from Japan?"

"Yeah."

"I wanna help."

"You can't walk."

"I got steady hands."  Lance holds them out, and it's true.  For a  
boy one drink away from passing out, he's got surprisingly steady  
hands.  They'd probably be even steadier if he could focus on them.

Chris says, "I'll help you."

Lance blinks.  "You've seen it?"

"I'm gonna."

The room doesn't even spin, really, when he stands.  Justin's  
scrambling for his and Lance's door, bright-eyed and determined.    
Chris gets the door open before Justin hits his head against it.

He sits down on the bed and watches Justin rummage.  His side of the  
room looks like a hurricane hit and left shoes washed up on the rug.    
Justin whoops and Chris has to re-focus. He's there, on his knees,  
holding up the Box.  It's exactly the same as it was in Tokyo, just  
a bit battered.  In it is the same dress, a bit rumpled, like it's  
been taken out a few times.

"Shit, Jup, I didn't think you still had that."

"'Course I do.  It's funny."

"Yeah?"

"You bet.  Watch!"  Justin strips.  He's fast, which makes sense in  
a profession where they have to change bizarre stage outfits in  
under a minute, sometimes.  Justin can get his pants off without  
shucking his shoes, ninety-seven times out of a hundred.  This is  
easier; it's just jeans and a t-shirt, boxers underneath.  Very pale  
naked skin, which is a reminder that they should all probably hit  
the tanning beds one of these days if they want to keep from looking  
like ghosts.  Justin pauses to grin at Chris while he's buttoning  
the blouse up.  The braid-edged collar's hooked over one shoulder.    
Bare legs stretch down out of the legs of his boxers.  "It was  
freaky, the first time I tried it on. Nothing really fit, but it was  
like it was too big, not like it was made for a girl.  And then I  
tried it again a month or so ago and I guess I'd grown into it or  
something."

It occurs to Chris that this state has a fairly long list of laws  
about what's going on in this hotel room.  He wonders what kind of  
treatment former boy-band members get in the Utah state pen.

The socks go on before the skirt.  Silky white, not the knit cotton  
Chris thinks they should be. Justin's calves look even longer in  
them than they do naked.  There's no fan porn in the world as good  
as this.  Chris knows he's hard long before Justin turns around to  
pick up the skirt and bends, stretching his boxers across his ass  
between blouse and stockings.  The skirt, when Justin shimmies into  
it, is impossibly short.  It barely covers his ass in back; it  
exposes the legs of his boxers all the way around.

Justin looks at himself critically in the mirror for a second, then  
kicks his boxers off.  The shoes are still in the box, and Chris  
doesn't doubt that they've been too small for a long time.  He  
wonders what he'd be able to see in their reflection, if Justin wore  
them.

"I need your help with the makeup."  Justin settles next to Chris on  
the bed, offering a fishing box full of makeup.  It's not  
theatrical, just a huge selection of the standard commerical stuff  
they have at Wal-Mart.  The fruits of late-night store runs, proof-  
positive that Justin's been buying more than sunglasses and  
underwear.

"Am I going for something in particular?"

Justin grins.  "Anime chick.  Extra eyeliner, something electric on  
the eyelids."

"You have stubble."

Justin smirks.  He's pulled on knee up on the bed, and Chris is torn  
between telling him to sit with his fucking legs together if he  
feels the need to go all commando, and maybe touching.

He gets as far as the eyeliner before his concentration breaks.    
He's drunker than he wants to admit, and he's been hard for the past  
twenty minutes in spite of the alcohol in his system. Justin's  
watching him, relaxed and a bit unfocussed, sticking to the blank  
expression he reserves for make-up artists.  Both his hands are  
braced on Chris' thighs.

Chris pushes him off.  "Fuck."  He scrambles across the room, leans  
against the door for a second.  There's no noise at all coming from  
the common room.  If everyone else has passed out, maybe this will  
stop.  He needs to get Justin cleaned up and put him to bed.  He  
needs to not get drunk with this disturbing child.  Maybe not ever  
again.  Possibly just for another year or two, until Justin's legal.    
Not to drink, but.

"Dude, what's with you?"

"Go clean up, Jup."

"We're not *done*."

"We're done.  And they're done too.  We shouldn't have left them  
alone with the bottle.  So go clean up and get a couple of glasses  
of water and go to bed."

"It's supposed to be funny."

"It's hilarious.  I'm fucking killing myself."

"What's *with* you?"

Chris twists suddenly and catches Justin around the waist.  Still so  
fucking skinny, in spite of the new height.  Hauls him over in front  
of the mirror.  "Look at yourself."

One undergrown grown-up, one overgrown kid in a dress.  Messy curls  
all over the place; the outfit needs some kind of hair band.  One of  
those white cloth things girls were wearing when Chris was in high  
school.  Virginal.

Justin's staring.  His eyes are way too big under all the makeup.    
After a minute, Chris licks both his thumbs and runs them across  
Justin's eyes, smearing the black.  It's almost an improvement.  
He doesn't look quite so impossible, just smeared and bruised.  And.

Justin's pupils are huge, and his skirt isn't sitting right.  Chris  
wonders whether Justin's sober enough to have any control over his  
arousal at all.  He doesn't seem to have much even when he's sober.    
On stage, in practice, on the bus, during meetings, during signings,  
during parties, Justin: hard.  Wardrobe looks like they might cry  
every time Justin ruins the line of one of their creations.  

"Oh, fuck you!"  Justin pushes, and Chris staggers back, falls on  
the bed.  The little bastard's fucking strong, and he isn't used to  
it, yet.  Justin's been hurting people without meaning to, lately.    
"It's just a joke!"

Chris reaches out, catches Justin's hips and pulls him in. "It's  
real funny."  He pulls Justin down into his lap. Long legs frame his  
hips, stockings rub against the bedspread.  Justin's naked skin is  
pressed against Chris' jeans.  There's no way he can not notice  
Chris' erection: it's brushing his balls every time he shifts.  Huge  
eyes staring into Chris'. "Do you even get what you're doing?"

The hand that palms his erection is the most tentative that's ever  
touched him.  Virgin girls about to lose it to a pop star have  
nothing on a drunken Justin Timberlake.

"Chris."  It's almost a question.  It goes up at the end, like a  
girl trying to get his attention.

Justin kisses him.  Deep and frantic and too fast, making it really  
obvious how drunk he is.  He settles down across Chris' thighs and  
rocks like the world's tallest lap dancer.  Whimpering by the time  
Chris breaks them apart, rubbing his face against Chris' neck.

"Fuck, Justin.  No."

It's the evil grown-up in him making him say it.  The part of his  
brain that whispers what happens to men who get caught with drunken,  
cross-dressing, gotch-less, underage boys in their laps.  The part  
of his brain that he's more used to listening to says that it *has*  
to stop before Chris throws Justin down and fucks his baby ass.

Chris pushes him off.  Hugs himself for a minute and wills his cock  
to lie down quiet.  It's not easy with Justin standing in front of  
him panting, still wearing the fucking sailor suit.  The skirt's  
hiked up over the tip of his cock.  Justin puts a hand down and  
palms the tip of it protectively, stares even harder at Chris.  Then  
he says, "Fucker," grabs his shorts, and bolts for the bathroom.

Chris thinks he hears Justin puking, but he doesn't check.

*

In the morning, Justin wanders into Chris' bedroom looking glazed,  
wearing a t-shirt with his boxers.  There's still makeup on him, but  
now it just looks like any night's leftovers, because Justin never  
remembers to scrub off before he goes to bed.

"Hey."

He folds himself down beside Chris, on top of the covers, and goes  
to sleep.  The same too-skinny mess he's always been, and somehow  
Chris isn't worried.

*

Two months later, Justin's going through one of his periodic awkward  
phases, and there's a new rule that they're not allowed to take him  
out clubbing after the concerts until he gets over it.  So he sulks  
and sits on his bed in his sweats and eats fried chicken out of  
buckets and licks his fingers and swears at the rest of them when  
they leave him behind.  They'll come in four or five hours later and  
Justin will be singing in the shower, loud, cheerfully dirty songs  
that Joey taught him over the course of a year spent travelling.  He  
comes out and pretends to look surprised that they're back, just  
like it isn't four in the morning, and goes to bed when the others  
do.

Except that half the time Chris is still too wired to sleep,  
something about the caffeine in the rum and cokes, proof positive  
that he should stick to beer.  When he's not sharing a room, he can  
sit up watching anime on the Cartoon Network, and sometimes he does  
even if he's sharing a room with Joey, who sleeps like the dead.    
All those little girls in their little, little skirts.  Not quite  
the hentai stuff that Lance showed him once, all shocked big eyes  
and smothered laughter, but it's definitely sexual.

If he jerks off to it occasionally, it doesn't make him any more  
disturbed than maybe ten million men in America.

If Justin catches him at it, it's only the once.

After that, it takes three nights.  In Dallas, staying in this glass  
sky-scraper hotel where they can look out at most of the world,  
Chris comes back early from the club and finds Justin in his room.  
Wearing the sailor suit.  The skirt, the blouse -- tucked in  
perfectly all around and with the collar neatly draped in the back,  
the socks, new where-the-hell-did-he-find-them shoes.  The band  
holding his hair back is the gold ribbon from the box.

The skirt was designed to be too short, but Justin's showing signs  
of growing up to be nothing but legs, and Chris is too short to get  
the classic male vantage on the situation.  All those legs.  Pale  
gold hairs show where no cloth covers him.  Eyeliner, but nothing  
else on his face.

Justin's cock isn't showing, which should be impossible.  He's found  
something to wear underneath, on the same shopping trip as the shoes  
maybe, but where the hell could he?

(San Francisco, fuckhead)

Justin says, "Shut the door, man."

There should be pictures of this.  Every little girl in America  
should have a picture of Justin in drag fun-tacked to her wall.

It should be flirtier than it is.  It should be cuter.  The skirt  
doesn't even bounce until the second before Justin steps in and  
kisses him, and even then it's only that instinctive swing in  
Justin's hips doing it.

The kiss is soft and shallow, and Justin's face is tense.  It takes  
Chris a second to understand that Justin's waiting for Chris to hit  
him.

There isn't anything he can say to that.  He doesn't let Justin pull  
back, though.  Holds the back of his neck and touches their  
foreheads together in spite of the awkward angle.  Strokes one soft  
cheek with his thumb until Justin turns his head and catches the  
thumb in his mouth and sucks it, watching Chris' face with newly  
hopeful eyes.  

"Fuck, Jup.  Jesus Christ."  That mouth around his thumb.  Bare leg  
against his thigh.  Against his hip.

He's not strong enough to do what he really wants, which is pick  
Justin up and wrap his legs around his waist and fuck him against  
the wall.  In spite of the illusion of the skirt and the big  
innocent eyes, Justin hit six feet tall a while ago, and lately he's  
unmanageably huge. This controlled prettiness he's working on right  
now is an illusion just barely clinging to the surface of his skin.

On his knees, Justin is utterly obscene.

Chris pulls him up.  Drags him to the bed and lays him out on it,  
waiting for him to sprawl, for the boy in the dress to reassert  
himself.  Climbs on top of him and crouches and kisses him.  Settles  
in and kisses him for a long time.

It's an art he's almost forgotten, because he's not a kid and he  
doesn't mostly make out with the strangers who keep finding him so  
interesting, since they have to get home at the end of the night,  
and it's usually late when they start.  But this.  Chris wasn't a  
virgin when they started touring, and he hasn't been since he was a  
lot younger than Justin is now.  He's not quite sure how virginity  
became their most marketable commodity, it is, and as a result it's  
*right there*, all the time.  It's so close to the surface of  
Justin's skin Chris can practically touch it.

And the kisses aren't anything remotely normal until Justin cracks  
up.  He sprawls on the bed under Chris and roars.  And yeah, it's  
funny.  Justin's big and awkward and pretty, and he's wearing a  
dress that some pervert on the other side of the world came up with  
for him.  He twists on the bed and manages to make it look almost  
sexy.  Bends one leg up enough to show off the silk panties he  
found.

Chris rolls off and pulls Justin across his lap.  Kisses him and  
tries to breathe instead of just laughing helplessly.  His hand  
between Justin's legs keeps touching new and more interesting skin,  
and Justin keeps offering more to him.  When his hand settles  
against the cloth strip at his crotch, he figures out fast that  
Justin tucked it straight back, that he's hard and it has to be  
hurting like hell by now.

Chris says, "Hold still."  Gropes in his pocket for the swiss army  
knife he's not supposed to have, pulls it out, cuts through one hip  
of the panties.  Pulls them off Justin's legs while Justin stares at  
him out of huge, shocked eyes.  Justin's cock pushes out as soon as  
the tension's broken, and Chris can feel him relax.  Whole body  
melting against his chest.

"Shit, that's better."

"You might have to rethink the drag thing if you're that attached to  
your dick."  Palming it like it isn't the most deliberate thing he's  
ever done.  In Chris' lap, Justin twists and arches, whines like an  
animal just from that one open-handed stroke.  When Chris kisses  
him, Justin gasps into his mouth.  "You're not drunk."

"Uh-uh.  I was last time, and you wouldn't let me."

"You think that's why?"  Chris rubs his fingertips against Justin's  
balls, lets him squirm with the touch for a while before sliding  
down to rub at the soft skin behind them.

Justin shrugs, tilts his head in, and kisses again.  Everything he  
knows about kissing obviously still isn't much, but the level of  
attention on offer makes every part of Chris that wasn't already  
erect stand up.  Laughter into his mouth.  And out of male-bonding-  
play reflex, Chris slaps Justin's ass, or as much of it as he can  
reach.

Justin arches.  It's just one slap on the hip, but Chris has had  
guys who didn't react like that to the deepest, hardest fuck he  
could give them.  "What, did you like that?"

"Yeah."  Blushing hard.

Chris tilts Justin in towards his body, exposing more of that baby-  
soft ass to the air, and slaps it again, hard and fast.  This time  
he gets a moan.  "Want it?"

"Oh man.  Yeah."

Chris nods.  He slides Justin off his lap and stands, then says,  
"Take the blouse off."  White, sharp cotton almost snaps when it  
hits the floor.  Underneath, Justin's chest is just barely gold-  
fuzzed, framed by the white edges of the bra he's wearing.  Tight to  
his chest, but somehow utterly convincing.  It's almost enough to  
make Chris believe there's some flesh instead of just flat muscle  
underneath.  "That too."  Bare to the waist when it hits the floor.    
"C'mon."

Bend him over the edge of the bed, rub him down from his shoulders.    
Kiss his spine, once.  Flip the skirt up.  Slap.

Justin whimpers every time Chris slaps his ass.  Whines when it  
keeps on even after his skin is warm and red.  Braced over the  
mattress with the skirt hiked up around his waist and his knee-socks  
still on.  Crying softly, except that he growls for it in between  
blows.  "Fuck, Chris, yeah.  Please."

In Justin's ear, "Slut."

"Yours."

Chris nods.  He finds the buttons at Justin's waist and lets the  
skirt slide off his hips.  Just a boy in too-soft white stockings,  
big-eyed wanting him.  Liquid when Chris pulls him in against him  
and kisses him, jerks him hard and swallows all the sound when  
Justin comes.  Strokes him afterwards while all Justin's muscles  
give and he crumples to the floor and lies panting.

"Shhh.  You okay?"

"Oh *Chris*."  Big, blue eyes an inch from his, and Chris realizes  
that he's going to a hell that Lance will have to explain to him in  
excrutiating, Mississippian detail.

He wonders how hot Justin's ass is on the inside right now.

He can almost tell when Justin wraps around him and kisses him.    
Still boneless from that first orgasm, but even more flexible for  
it.  One long, unreasonable leg hooks around Chris' hip, pulls  
him down.  The baby mouth under his doesn't taste anything like a  
baby should.  Justin holds him like the best girl he's ever had,  
spreading and watching him.  Like he actually knows what he wants,  
almost.

And those socks are still there, rubbing whispers along Chris'  
jeans.  "Fuck me."

There are three and a half billion men in the world, and only Chris  
Kirkpatrick will get to fuck Justin Timberlake first.  "Yeah. Okay."

Not on the floor, though.  Chris is so hard by the time he stands  
that he wants to double over.  Wants to get very naked very fast.    
That's first.  Second is hauling Justin to his feet and laying him  
out on his back, spreading his legs and putting his knees up.  Only  
a special, loving, very gay god could be responsible for the sheer  
number of dance lessons that've made Justin this flexible.

Third involves latex and clear, hotel-chilled lubricants, and  
Chris' fingers, and Justin's pretty, pretty ass.  'Hot' turns out to  
be an understatement, and Justin won't hold still once Chris is in  
him.  Everything he says is clear, though.  Chris knows *exactly*  
how this feels.  Every time it hurts he hears about it; the first  
time he finds the sweet spot, he has to peel Justin off him.  In a  
perfect world, one where Chris is still this rich but not half this  
famous, he could introduce Justin to sex and balconies at the same  
time.  Let all of Texas hear his boy begging for it.

"Chris, come *on*."

"Slut."

"Sure.  Whatever.  Biggest whore in Dallas-Fort Worth if you want me  
to be, just *fuck* me!"

Justin's accent crawls all the way up Chris' nerves to his brain.    
It's there in the long breath Justin hisses when Chris pushes his  
knees up to his shoulders.  And he can feel the tension building  
even through heavy latex, Justin stretching to take him.

And then in, just shallowly until Justin stops crying soft animal-  
sounds and mouths up to kiss him.  "Steady, baby."

"It hurts."

"Did you think it wouldn't?"

"I thought it'd hurt different than this."

"Tell me."  Still pushing, but not hard.  Justin's as slick as Chris  
has ever got anybody in his life, but he's tight.  Every time he  
gives, it's just a fraction of an inch, and he's panting all the  
time.

"I didn't think I'd feel it this deep.  I mean, I knew I'd feel it  
going in, but..."

Chris kisses him.  Slow and steady, open enough that he thinks  
Justin could crawl down his throat if he really wanted to.  He gives  
it a minute while Justin breathes tension out of his body, then  
catches one narrow ankle and moves it from his shoulder to his  
waist.  "Hold tight."  One thrust, fast and hard, to get past the  
first strain of it.  The next one hits where it's supposed to.    
"That better?"

"Fuck you."

Justin's indignant.  Wide-eyed and sweating and trying not to  
smile, and spread out on his back with his legs wrapped around  
Chris' waist and a dick up his ass, swearing at him.

"You don't get to spank my ass and tease me both."  He's relaxed,  
finally.  Breathing steadily even with Chris' weight on top of him.

Chris says, "Stop me."

Justin is, in spite of being a skinny, pretty boy, flexible, fast,  
and freakishly strong.  Enough to throw Chris' weight off and hang  
onto him at the same time.  Ride him and roll with him, scratching  
and biting and laughing.  By the time Chris has the necessary death  
grip on Justin's wrists, Justin's on top of him, twisting to get his  
hands free and fucking himself on Chris' cock.  Still laughing  
enough to make his stomach ripple.

He attacks again as soon as Chris lets go.  Manicured nails on his  
chest make Chris grateful for the body hair he's got.  His own hands  
settle into the small of Justin's back and hold him while he finds  
his way through to whatever feels good to him.  Slow twists and then  
just rocking.  Chris thrusts up sometimes, hard enough to make  
Justin gasp, and when he settles again Justin whispers, "Yeah, it's  
good."

Chris raises one hand to Justin's mouth in the last seconds, fingers  
pushing between his lips.  Soft "Love ya," from Justin just before  
he comes, and afterwards he lets Chris roll him down again and  
finish.

As a red-blooded capital-G Guy, Chris has a perfect right to be  
stupid for a while before he wakes up and registers that Justin's  
still wearing the knee-socks.  He sits up and rubs the soft belly  
being offered, then bends and peels one sock down.  Wonders how many  
millions of people would notice if he took Justin into the bathroom  
right now and shaved his legs.

Later, chewing on slightly burned room service pizza, Chris  
contemplates the potential of a Justin wearing nothing but cat-boy  
ears and a tail.  Maybe a collar.

He wakes up in the early morning and has to twist the lock on the  
bathroom door to get at Justin in the shower.  Justin yelps at the  
first touch on his hip, but he arches when Chris presses against his  
side.  Kisses back when Chris kisses him, laughs while he wraps his  
hand around Chris' cock and jerks him off.

He's not steady on his feet, though.  Chris half-carries him out of  
the shower and dries him while he's sitting down.  Folds him into  
the bedroom floor and helps him stretch until it's less than  
absolutely obvious what they were doing all night.  Warm neck under  
his lips when he bends Justin forward.

Eventually, he needs clothes.  While he's finding his, Justin gets  
dressed out of the suitcase in the corner.  Chris turns back to ask  
something and sees white, sex-stained stocking disappearing as  
Justin pulls his jeans up to his hips.  Quick, sexy smile, and  
Justin stretches, showing every angular line of his body before  
going back to his clothes cache.

Chris trims the stubble around his goatee, and behind him Justin  
leans against the toilet tank and puts on eyeliner, watching Chris'  
face in the bathroom mirror.  Little flares of electric blue make  
his eyes look huge.  The swept-forward hair doesn't work, though.    
It's too Lyle Lovette in his pre-Julia Roberts days, and just  
because Justin isn't old enough to remember that is no reason for  
him to go out in public like that.

A little makeup, a little gel, and the Justin who walks ahead of him  
out of the bathroom is unreal, perfect, like watercolour art.  He  
stays like that all day.  Hair twisted into small spikes, the way  
Chris did it while Justin sat between his feet.  Huge eyes that  
watch Chris in the elevator, reflected in the mirrored walls.


End file.
